Ablaze
by thir13enth
Summary: The bastards were back at it again, chasing her for the secrets of Flame Alchemy, and this time he might not be able to save her. Royai.
1. rinse and repeat

**Hello, new and old readers alike! **

**As a quick explanation—although this story was begun nearly two years ago, I was recently writing the next chapter when I realized that I didn't like how the past chapters had turned out and so decided to subsequently rewrite everything from the beginning. **

**This fanfiction is going to be on the longer end in word count so you'll have to be riding the wagon for a while, but hopefully you'll enjoy the journey. The story is canon, but I've taken the liberty of adding some original details on the science behind flame alchemy as well as OC supporting characters. **

**To my dear old readers: Updates will be coming a lot quicker than previously—at least up to the part that I had left off. I'm so sorry for having left you guys off in the middle of a fight! But the rewrites are for the best—none of the plot information will be changed, the story will be more cohesive, the chapters longer, and the writing just better in general!**

**Anyway, without further ado…enjoy!**

* * *

**Prologue**

**(when everything is said and done)**

A kick to her chest and a knock to her head were more than enough to force the restrained tears out of place from behind her eyes.

"I'll ask you again. Where is your father's research?" the man demanded, cocking a black-barreled gun to her head.

But the threat of a bullet was a lie—she knew they wouldn't dare kill her.

After all, she was the only connection they had.

"I don't know," she said firmly, biting back her lip, the taste of tear and blood on her tongue.

She only saw the man's mouth turn into a sneer before he cracked the muzzle of the revolver against her head and commanded for the rest of his group to search her home…

_Fuck, _she cursed in her head.

_I'm still so weak._

**…**

She came back to consciousness when Mustang called her name.

"Yes," she replied, even though she was numb and sore, and her vision hadn't cleared yet.

She felt Mustang kneel down to lift her up.

She heard the falter in his breath—the quiet groan in his chest that he did not let out, taking her weight upon his weary shoulders.

**divider**

That, four years ago, was precisely when she had told herself that she needed to protect her own damn self.

She joined the military right along in Mustang's footsteps, determining her life had only two purposes: to protect the information carved on her back and to make sure the only other man that mattered in her life was safe.

She made him burn the flames off her back so that if in case she was captured, he wouldn't have to worry about her—he'd just have to worry about himself and nothing more.

Or so she thought.

* * *

**Chapter One**

**(the ending that we knew would come has finally begun)**

Always a light-sleeper, Hawkeye was easily rustled awake at the step of an unwelcome boot on the hardwood corridor floor just beyond her bedroom door.

It was enough cue for her to grab hold of her bedside gun, the rest of her slim body hurling over the edge of her mattress, bare feet silent landing on the ground.

She had six bullets at hand—the closest back up gun was in another room, and she didn't have any extra cartridges left in her nightstand's drawer.

The new moon wasn't cooperating—no light streamed in through the window and she was only able to make out the audible details of whoever the hell had intruded her home.

But even upon just hearing the sound of shuffling boots, she could tell that there was much more than one person, even more than three people.

And they were coming towards her—just a few feet behind her closed door.

Six bullets was not going to be enough.

Keeping a steady finger on the trigger, she crawled quickly to the telephone, dialing the only number she had ever taken care to remember. She pursed her lips, dragging her finger along the knobs and grooves of the phone—each click of the swiveling dial resonated so loudly in the dead silence and she was fighting between dialing slow enough so the racket wouldn't be heard beyond the door and dialing quick enough so that she'd actually be able to call in time.

"Yo," came his voice from the other end.

"Colonel, I'm so sorry to bother you," she quickly explained, but a strong hand covered her mouth and pulled her away before she was able to say anything, phone dropping to the floor.

**divider**

She never called in the night when she knew he was asleep.

In fact, she never called at _all_ unless it was something urgent.

And the thud on the other side of the line couldn't possibly foreshadow a good thing.

"Shit," he muttered, leaping out of bed. Scrambling, he questioned why he even cared to find something to wear, settling on the previous day's work shirt and brigade pants.

He just had to get to Hawkeye as soon as possible, he urgently thought, hands automatically dropping to piece together the first button on his shirt.

_Fuck buttoning shirts, _he cursed, releasing his fingers from the fabric and reaching for his gloves before jumping out the window of his second story apartment.

He prayed this wasn't a repeat of what had happened four years ago, landing and breaking his hard fall to the street with a tap of his right foot, rolling the rest of the momentum in his run toward Hawkeye's place.

**divider**

"Where is your father's research?" one of the men standing before her snarled.

Hawkeye attempted to keep her cool, even with at least four pistols pointed at her head. Her eyes searched desperately for her gun in the dark room, but she found it having been kicked off to the far side of her room.

No good—her hands were nowhere near able to retrieve her weapon; they were held behind her back.

Two hands were brought down on her shoulder and the man crouched down to her level, his rotten breath descending over her face. She felt him chuckle darkly.

A canine yap sounded behind him.

Hayate growled and barked angrily, ready to pounce at his owner's offenders.

Hawkeye closed her eyes, hoping that Hayate wouldn't try to save her and end up getting killed himself, but to her dismay, Hayate went ahead and pulled at one of her enemies' pant leg, attempting to pull him off Hawkeye.

"Get off, dog," the person behind her snarled. She heard the click of a gun.

_Oh god, no._

A gunshot and Hayate jumped back, whimpering. "Out of my way, pup; we have no business with you," one of the men commanded, slamming her bedroom door, leaving her dog to scratch viciously at the door, yapping loudly.

Her hair was roughly pulled back, and a rough voice demanded harshly straight into her ear, "Just tell us where the hell the research is."

She gritted her teeth, unwilling to give them anything.

"There's only one other person still alive that knows about the alchemy," the stern voice threatened. "You risk him if you say nothing. Give us what we want and you can be sure nothing will happen to him."

But she couldn't trust these bastards, and she wasn't going to help them.

She kept her mouth shut.

"Bitch!" one of them yelled in frustration, and she felt a metal-tipped boot hit her lower back.

The kick forced a hiccup out of her and a small cry of pain escaped her lips, but she sucked in the throbbing agony and closed her eyes, unheeding.

"Keep at it," another voice ordered. "She'll eventually give it up."

Breathing in sharply, she bit down on her tongue and vowed never to utter a word.

**divider**

Slamming open her apartment door, he slapped on the lights.

"Lieutenant!" he called, immediately heading towards the closed bedroom door at the end of the hallway.

He almost tripped over the ecstatic ball of black and white fur.

"Hayate?" the flame alchemist questioned, kneeling down to rub his hand over the dog's head.

Upon hearing the dog whimper, Mustang immediately re-approached the door, right hand held up in the air ready to snap up a fire.

Once throwing it open, the first thing he saw was her open bedroom window, stale night air billowing in through the curtains.

* * *

**thir13enth**


	2. pushed to the limit

**Project Revamp is going awesomely—I only hope that I can do as much as I can before the time slips right out of my fingers! **

**Thanks for the reviews and I'm glad to see so many new readers! I won't disappoint!**

* * *

**Chapter Two**

**(finding nothing but questions and devils)**

"I'm so glad that you didn't create that much of a problem like you did last time," a voice to the right of her said.

So these were the same bastards from those four years ago, she realized.

Although blindfolded, she tried to figure out the turns the vehicle made, concentrating on the directions her body swayed. The motor was too loud for her to hear anything, but she could tell the ground was even and paved and that they were probably cruising in some dark corner of Amestris.

"Who would have ever known it was on your back all along?"

She gritted her teeth.

They had forced it out of her—it had been her mistake to call him in the first place:

Having spotted him rushing down the street coming towards her apartment from outside of her window, they had decided to use him as a trump card.

Their weapons had been pointed at her bedroom door, and she had seen the gleam of their teeth while they'd smirked.

"We'll just wait quietly here for him until he comes right into range," one of the men had said.

_No, _she had thought. _He can't die because of me._

And defeated, with her head down, she'd finally given them the answer they'd wanted.

"You should have told us that before so that your pretty self wouldn't have ended up all bruised," the voice continued over the loud engine."We could have snatched you up and left instead of going through all that trouble. You just made things that much harder by putting up a fight."

Well if she hadn't put up a fight, she'd just be a pushover, she reasoned.

And there was no way in hell she was dying that way.

**divider**

Ironically her bedroom didn't look like anything had been touched, and if he hadn't known better, he would have just assumed that she had gone for a nightly walk.

But the blankets over her mattress were scrambled—the meticulous lieutenant would never leave her bed unmade—and the phone's receiver lying on the ground.

Reaching down to replace the phone back on its hook, he noticed a flicker of light bouncing off some metal a few inches away.

A shiny bullet case.

He just hoped to hell that the bullet had come from Hawkeye's gun, and fortunately, when he looked around her room again, he didn't see any trace of blood and was the tiniest bit relieved by the fact that she hadn't been hurt so that she was left with open wounds.

Sticking his head out of her open window, he could only assume that she had been taken.

He had been too late.

Hearing the soft jingle of Hayate's collar, the colonel looked back at the dog, whose nose was down on the floor, trying to read what scents were left.

He had no leads—but they couldn't have gotten that far in the few minutes it took for him to get to her apartment.

"Come on, boy," he called Hayate, hurrying out.

**divider**

Once her eyes were uncovered, they took a long while to adjust to the bright white light of the room.

She had no idea where the hell she was, and she only got one more glimpse of her surroundings before yet another tie of fabric was placed around her eyes. She felt her body being thrown onto a cool rock hard surface, which made the skin underneath her thin clothes shiver.

They then stripped her of her clothes quite indifferently and without any sort of modest respect.

She winced at the bite of the cold air, thrashing her legs when she thought the opportunity best.

Hawkeye, in return, received a thin jab in her arm—a needle.

The lieutenant felt the energy from her muscles slipping away, paralyzed, cramped and unmoving.

The feeling of hands running over her back was worse.

Strange, uncomfortable, unwanted caresses tainted her skin, and the unnecessary awes of curiosity and wonder as they discussed the possibilities of the code that was embedded onto her.

Perhaps it was a curse that her father had placed his work onto her.

"Were these burns intentional?" someone asked.

"Yes," she answered.

It was hardly a lie.

Her father might not have done it himself, but it sure as hell was intentional, and she thanked Mustang for having the courage to carry out her decision with her, probably the single most cognizant decision she had ever made in her life.

**divider**

They later placed her into a small holding cell. She demanded they give her some decency and return her clothing to her, which they did—but it was only out of pity from one of the young and subordinate men, and not one of the men in the truck that had taunted and mocked her the entire way there.

After dressing, she sat, helplessly, but once no one was watching, she pulled a trick out of her sleeve, a small thin stick of wood between her lips.

She blew hard at the whistle and only hoped that he could hear.

**divider**

That, he did hear, and after following Mustang around on his tired four legs, he reacted with quite some excitement.

The colonel, who had been searching for leads on where Hawkeye might have been taken for the past few hours, was confused at Hayate's sudden barking and yelping in what seemed like anticipation, his ears perked up.

"What's up, Hayate?" Mustang asked, before looking up and squinting at the rising sun.

Upon getting the colonel's attention, Hayate began to sprint off to the right. Mustang trailed after the canine, and after a short while, Hayate stopped at a manhole, which the flame alchemist went right for, pulling the cover off the drain.

The dog's yapping grew more urgent, his nose down into the deep dark recesses of the city's sewer system.

"Down there?" he asked, but didn't waste another second, taking Hayate under his arm and throwing himself down the rungs of the slick ladder. The dog impatiently wrestled its way out of Mustang's arm once they had landed close enough to the sewer ground, running across the grimy underpassageway before stopping at a crack in the concrete wall.

Behind the wall?

No problem—alchemy solved everything.

Mustang raised his hands over his head, but did not expect another pair of arms to come up behind him and lock his wrists together behind his back.

He was then forced down to the cold gritty cement, and his gloves were subsequently pulled off, to which the flame alchemist cursed.

"Who the hell are you?" Mustang demanded, trying to get a look at his assaulter and struggling under a sturdy foot on his back, his arms pulled up over him.

"Me?" an answer returned. "Just call me the Alchemist."

"What the _hell _do you want?"

"The power from hell."

**divider**

Hawkeye only looked grimly at the wall facing her, throat dry from the whistle.

Perhaps it was too far off her him to hear—she had no idea where she was herself, since she had been knocked out for who knew how long.

She noted some gravel fall from the ceiling above her. She was somewhere underground, she guessed, and not too far from the surface.

She thought of just digging her way out, but she was constantly watched, and often questioned. She would refuse to tell them anything, but also attempted to leach as much information as she could from the guards—trying to find out where she was, who the person behind her captivity was, what exactly they wanted aside from flame alchemy, just anything that could give her a clue.

Her thought process was interrupted by a faint voice that seemed to be coming through the wall behind her.

"What the hell do you want?"

Her eyes widened. Was that—

The guard on watch suddenly looked in the direction of the voice; which confirmed to her that she was not imagining things.

"Colonel!" she shouted, turning and pounding at the wall. It would be to no avail, but if she could hear him from the inside, then he had to have been able to hear her from the outside.

"Hey! Hey!" a guard warned, getting up from his chair and making his way towards her.

"Fuck," she cursed under breath and figuring she was already in trouble, continued to yell and pound at the stone wall.

She heard no response from the other side, but did hear two or three other footsteps come in behind her.

She turned to defend herself, only noticing the tranquilizing gun the second they shot it at her.

**divider**

"Ugh," Mustang grunted, under the Alchemist's foot.

"Listen, bastard," the male voice continued. "We have your precious lieutenant in our custody, so it's either that you give us what we want, or that she suffers a long slow death."

Mustang said nothing, noticing a few more pairs of feet shuffling around him to join his assaulter.

"I'm not answering shit."

And almost immediately, a gunshot sounded and a ripping exploding pain erupted over the right of Mustang's back. He groaned, writhing, but unable to move because of the heavy foot still holding him down. He smelled iron, and felt his shirt beginning to stick to his skin.

He saw another pair of feet walk over to his head and raised his head to look up, but was instead kicked in the chest. Mustang coughed, spraying blood from his lips.

"Now…are you going to work with us or not?"

**divider**

Hawkeye woke up to white lights.

"Riza Hawkeye," a voice said. She recognized it from the truck on the way here, but found herself unable to move, and so couldn't turn her head to fully face the man speaking.

"You were very clever with that dog whistle, weren't you?" he continued, and she heard one single snap of bamboo. "But you know who we did find?"

She held her breath, knowing the answer.

"Roy Mustang," he declared.

She assumed they were waiting for some kind of a response from her, judging by the silence afterward, but Hawkeye said nothing, and showed nothing in her demeanor.

"Don't you know him, this Roy Mustang? Military personnel, black hair, black eyes, in the prime of his time, the famed Fire Alchemist?"

"He's my colonel," she replied.

"And?"

She decided not to fight them when they probably already knew. "He was my father's student."

"Oh?" but the surprise was fake. "Anything more related to your father and alchemy?"

"Who are you?" she asked him, instead.

"No, no, my questions first, Hawkeye."

"Then what do you want?" she demanded, her brows creasing.

"Everything," he replied. "Everything about flame alchemy."

She thought for a moment. "Can I at least get something to address you by?"

He scoffed. "I don't think you'd give me any more respect than you are right now."

After a moment of mutual silence: "And just so you know," he reminded. "If you don't work with us...he is dying as we speak."

**divider**

Mustang was later dragged out of the dark room that he had been thrown in, and he squinted his eyes against the bright new environment.

"So tell me everything, Mustang," said a familiar voice—the Alchemist. "How did you get to acquire this research from Riza Hawkeye?"

Said colonel didn't answer.

"You know where the research is, don't you?"

Mustang reasoned quickly.

If he lied, the Alchemist wouldn't trust him and make him spill more information later, which might buy Hawkeye more time, but wouldn't do either of them any good since he was lying there losing blood by the second.

But if he told a simple truth…

Well the Alchemist was bound to know the research was tattooed all over her back, if he had gone ahead and kidnapped her. And even if the Alchemist didn't know this, he'd go ahead and try to read the tattoo, but fail to understand the cryptic symbols. He'd then resort to asking Mustang to decode it for them.

That, the Alchemist couldn't do without bringing the two of them to the same place.

Perfect—from there, they could just make their escape.

"It's on her back," Mustang finally replied. "It's tattooed on her back."

"So you just happened to see her back and learn flame alchemy."

"I forced her to show me her back."

"Really," said the Alchemist in disbelief, suddenly standing before Mustang.

The Alchemist was a middle-aged man, probably ten years older than Mustang, with dark circles under his green eyes. Short light brown hair topped his fair-skinned head and he stood slightly above average height.

For some reason, Mustang had been expecting a much older looking man.

"Where is she?" the colonel hissed.

"They say our science is one of exchange," replied the Alchemist. "My answers for yours—where's her father?"

Mustang couldn't figure out what the Alchemist was planning to do with this information. "He passed away," he answered with grit teeth.

"What cause?"

"He was sick."

"And you learned flame alchemy after his death?"

It took a moment for Mustang to recall what he had previously stated. "Yes."

The Alchemist paced back and forth in front of the colonel, a slow smirk forming over his pale lips.

"If that's the case," he continued slowly, "then Berthold Hawkeye's body should be in his grave, am I right?"

"Yes."

"Then why isn't his body there?"

Mustang's eyes narrowed.

How did the Alchemist know about that?

"I don't know what you're talking about," the flame alchemist said quickly.

His interrogator clucked his tongue, stopping his stroll. "Mustang, I'm not a man to break promises, and since you've already answered all my previous questions so cooperatively, I'll give you my end of the exchange and answer your question—where is your lieutenant, you asked?"

Saying nothing, the colonel looked up to where the Alchemist was gesturing. His eyes widened upon seeing the blond lieutenant being forced into the room by two guards, hands tied behind her back and her mouth covered behind a rag. Her chocolate eyes were relieved to see the colonel—but she was hiding her panic as best as she could.

"Leave her alone," Mustang hissed.

The Alchemist smiled, almost innocuously. He took a few steps towards Hawkeye, pulling a small knife out of his pocket and holding it on her throat.

Mustang surged forward to stop the damned man from doing anything to his lieutenant, but he had forgotten that he was being held down by guards himself, and despite his struggling, was unable to make any moves to protect her.

"It's time for another question-answer exchange," explained the Alchemist, and then he turned to face Hawkeye. "My dear Hawkeye, did you know that your father's body isn't in his grave?"

Mustang's breath caught in his throat and he desperately tried to read Hawkeye's expression, but her emotions were too jumbled for him to make out.

"I didn't know either," the Alchemist agreed, in much too cheerful a voice for the situation. "How about we ask your colonel?"

"Fuck you," he cursed.

A cocked eyebrow from the Alchemist and then the blade slipped over her skin.

Again Mustang stepped forward to stop the Alchemist from hurting her, but was once more reminded that he was being restrained against his will. "Stop! Don't—"

"Then answer the question, Mustang. Simple as that. Where is Berthold Hawkeye's dead body?"

The raven-haired colonel clenched his teeth.

"Not going to answer?" and Mustang saw the knife's point dimple into her throat—

"No!" he yelled, legs charging forward helplessly.

"You're running out of time."

But Mustang couldn't—

A small red line drew over her neck—

"I'll tell you, I'll tell you!" he shouted, desperate. Mustang looked down, taking a breath before meeting eyes with the Alchemist.

"Well?"

"Berthold Hawkeye was documented to have died of sickness," Mustang explained. "But that's not what had actually happened."

"Then what's the truth?"

Mustang bit his lip before answering.

"I killed her father."

* * *

**Oh no! What's all this about?! What do you guys think?**

**As a side note, amazingly, this actually used to be the end of chapter 6, which says a lot about the rewriting that's being done, xD. It's been a lot of smushing together old chapters that really didn't need to be all that short, lol.**

**thir13enth**


	3. decoding the past

**Hey, hey all! Much appreciation for all the support!**

**A quick note: for the purposes of this story, I've plugged in a theory of how flame alchemy works—by no means is this canon. You'll be introduced to it in a bit, but you'll be finding more and more about it as the plot unravels, but if you're confused at all, please let me know! (One of the main reasons why I began to rewrite this story was because I was dissatisfied by how I had explained it previously! What good would this whole revision effort be if it ended up just making the explanation worse?)**

**Anyway, this upcoming arc of the story is going to be flashback heavy—got a lot of stuff to explain that I'd rather not introduce through dialogue/filler events.**

* * *

**Chapter Three:**

**(another secret's been kept and left her tainted)**

By the time he was eighteen, Mustang knew Riza Hawkeye's father better than he knew about his own—in fact, he didn't know about his father at all—and knew even more about the Hawkeye family than he knew about his relationship between his own mother and himself.

Despite this, Mustang knew almost nothing about the work that kept the senior Hawkeye in self-isolation, even though he had worked for so long as apprentice. The man himself was enough of a mystery, and his research he kept under even more shadow.

Mustang had begun to wonder if he would actually ever benefit anymore from apprenticing under Hawkeye, which was why it'd been surprising when the older man had suddenly beckoned for Mustang to join him for a private conversation— much more than the simple demands and commands that the researcher had been instructing Mustang to follow for close to ten years.

…

_"Get over here, boy," his hoarse voice called in the middle of Mustang's quick-fix dinner that the young Hawkeye had split with him. After giving Hawkeye a wide apologetic smile and dismissing himself, Mustang climbed up the stairs into the darker parts of the Hawkeye household._

_"Yes, sir?" Mustang knocked on the door, slightly cracking the entrance open to see the back of the stern man, leaning over his desk—the only source of bright light in that room._

_"Come here." Hawkeye's voice was still as intimidating as ever to Mustang, even after some good number of years of conditioning._

_"Yes?" Mustang asked again, but he forgot the 'sir' because he was surprised that the older man didn't cover his work papers with a folder or his hands, letting Mustang see right over his shoulder at the carefully documented images and script. _

_Mustang was mesmerized. He had no idea what the hell any of it meant, but Mustang knew he wanted to know and felt destined to understand the research that he had been indirectly supporting at the cost of his years of apprenticeship._

_"Sit." _

_And Mustang did, dragging a tattered chair to rest on, but doing so only at the edge of the seat. He crossed his arms but didn't straighten his back against the chair, attempting to appear more submissive than domineering, since he knew his superior didn't like that—having always complained about Mustang's arrogant ego that had to get 'toned down.'_

_"Fire," the senior Hawkeye suddenly began. "Fire is an element completely different from the others. Humans have conquered it, and humans can create it with flint and steel. But we barely know how to control it."_

_Whenever the older man started on philosophical rants like these, Mustang tended to drowse off—but there was something about the passion that the man had about this particular topic. Something special, like he had been researching it for years. Something special, like he held its secrets dear to his heart. Soul. Life._

_Daughter's life, perhaps. _

_"Flame alchemy," he continued, and Mustang almost gasped when he heard the words from the man's lips—was he finally going to learn the alchemy he had hoped to learn from the very beginning?_

_"Flame alchemy isn't really alchemy," explained Hawkeye. "It's _alkahestry_."_

_Mustang didn't know the difference. Mustang didn't really care at the time._

_"Alkahestry is from the East. Alkahestry is about the Dragon's Pulse—manipulating the flow of chi energy from nature."_

_Mustang nodded his head vigorously. "Yeah, just like how our alchemy gets energy from movement of tectonic plates."_

_"No!" Hawkeye growled, practically yelling, and making Mustang flinch back. "It's _not _the same as alkahestry!" He looked straight at Mustang in the eyes, crushing his student in intimidation._

_It was the first time Mustang had ever seen Hawkeye's brown eyes. They were the same shade as his daughter's._

_Hawkeye seemed to catch his rage and contained it immediately. "Alkahestry uses a completely different energy. And this is important because this is where the power of flame alchemy comes from._

_"Chi—energy—flows naturally from one place to another down a concentration gradient, from a very highly energized place to a relatively lower one to maintain balance. That said, there are two transmutation circles in flame alchemy—the Source and the Gate. _

_"The Source is a premade circle, a circle that is placed in a remote area, a safe reservoir where energy can be collected. The Gate is the second circle that can channel all the charged energy from the Source to wherever it's located. _

_"Energy, on command of the person controlling the Source and the Gate, will flow naturally from the highly charged Source to the empty Gate. This energy transfer is spontaneous—faster than light. Thus: fire."_

_Mustang digested the given information silently and without questions. It didn't take much for Master Hawkeye's temper to incite, and Mustang wanted to get as much information as he could while the man was still in the mood to talk to Mustang about it._

_After several minutes of dead eye contact, Mustang decided that the master's discussion was long over._

_"Sir," Mustang began. "I guess…you have decided to trust me with your research?" _

_The older man kept his face unexpressive, eyes still locked on Mustang._

_"The Easterners call our alchemy dead," Hawkeye continued. "They state they feel some sort of 'dark' energy emitting from our transmutations." Hawkeye took a deep breath as a pause. "I trust the Easterners. There is something very wrong with the alchemy here. I don't know what it is, and I don't have enough time left to find out."_

_Mustang nodded, not sure how else to respond to the sudden pause._

_"You, boy…you're going to find out the truth about all this mess, right? You're going to start from the very bottom and work your way up to the top to discover what I can't, right? You're going to become the Fuhrer and figure out what's tainting the alchemy here, right?"_

_The younger man was speechless and unsure of how to react._

_Had the master lost his mind?_

_"Yes," Mustang agreed nevertheless. "I will."_

_Hawkeye nodded and continued his work, in essence, dismissing Mustang._

…

Mustang hadn't known yet what was wrong with Amestris' alchemy, and Mustang hadn't even yet decided that becoming Fuhrer would be his dream.

But what he did know since was that Berthold Hawkeye had later entrusted Mustang with his research notes before his death.

And that Mustang wasn't sure what to make of the notes until he finally got the courage to ask Riza Hawkeye what her father meant when he said that 'his daughter held the future.'

**divider**

"I killed her father," Mustang repeated, weaker this time, as if he didn't want to admit it to even himself.

The colonel didn't dare to bring his eyes up to meet his lieutenant.

"The documents," he continued. "The documents…I…I was the one preparing them. I faked them—I just wrote that he had been sick, coughing blood, slowly dying. And when they came by to put him in the coffin…I took out his body and burned it—I…" and his voice fell flat. "…I couldn't leave any evidence behind. It would have destroyed my career."

"And no one knew, huh?"

The flame alchemist slowly raised his head to face the Alchemist. "Not until you dug around in graves," he spat.

"I was just looking for the research—wondering if he took it with him," the Alchemist replied wistfully, as though that justified his actions. He briefly looked at his hands for a moment before returning to Mustang. "So you'll help me read her back, right?"

The Alchemist hadn't said it in a question. And to prevent Mustang from refusing, the man let a splatter of light gleam off the side of the knife that was still in his hand.

Automatically the colonel glanced at his subordinate, tearing his eyes away again after just a second of a look at her eyes—hurt, torn, confused, betrayed, despaired.

He shut his eyes tightly—he had never wanted to see her like this.

"Yes," he answered but before the last consonant slipped off his tongue, he let out several deep-lunged coughs, the last few sputtering blood onto the floor in front of him.

The Alchemist quickly stepped back. "Get him treated. We need him alive."

**divider**

_His hands were first cold when she entrusted him with flame alchemy her father had so laboriously studied and researched._

_He was a bit nervous, maybe tense and worried about her reaction to him bringing up anything related to her father, who had passed away only recently. She could tell he had recited the same line over and over again, just to get the right tone to ask her, as well as practicing responses to whatever her reply might be._

_"Your father…" he started, and paused for a split second to watch for any glaze over her eyes. "He said…that you had his research."_

_"I do," she replied simply._

_"Can—" and he stopped himself. "Do you trust me with it?"_

_And she had been preparing for this question ever since her father had taken him in as his student._

_She still didn't know what to answer._

_"Yes," she finally said, after a moment's pause._

_He stood there, not sure what to say or do after the one word answer._

_He opened his mouth to ask another question after a good five minutes of pressured silence, but she interrupted him by pulling off her black turtleneck sweater. She didn't bother to look at his face; by the silence alone, she knew he was bewildered, maybe more confused._

_Only when she turned her back to him and unclasped the rest of her clothing did he understand._

_Her skin prickled at the cool air rolling over her exposed back. The last time she had ever felt that way was when the research had been being written._

_She didn't sense any movement so she was surprised when she heard his voice right over her head._

_"…may I?" he asked._

_She bowed her head to accept, and though she braced herself, she still tensed up at the touch of his cold fingers. She gasped silently, but he felt this under his fingers and froze._

_"S-sorry," he apologized, stammering._

_She said nothing, urging him to just continue in her lack of words and movement._

_"Here…just sit down, or…um—" he suggested, but she already anticipated his words and lay flat down on a nearby sofa. Though his fingers were no longer on her back, the ghost of them lingered like mist._

_She felt the depression on the left side of the sofa cushion where he seated himself. She could feel him draw a deep breath, quietly, and then reached his hand over again to touch the alchemic tattoo scrawled over her back. She closed her eyes and let the frigid sensations run across in a circle, over each character, each mark, each line of the black design._

_She could hear his awe at the intricacy of her father's work. _

_It radiated from the way he brushed over her back, skimmed across the information that she had never really wanted to see for herself._

…

"Well at least you know what happened to your old man," a male voice suddenly echoed through the bars.

She didn't raise her eyes to the rude guard. "Shut up."

Hawkeye's mind was still numb.

_The documents…I faked them._

Shaking her head, she looked down once at her hands and then closed her eyes again, dropping her head backwards against the stone wall of her prison cell.

He was going to help them read the research off her back…

"Why was he coughing blood?" she asked suddenly.

"I don't know," the black-haired guard drawled, changing positions on his chair. "Probably got shot or something."

Her eyes widened. "He's hurt?"

The guard turned his face towards her, forehead wrinkled in question. "The guy killed your father and you're worried that he got shot?" He scoffed. "Shouldn't you be hoping that he dies or something?"

_I had to get rid of the evidence._

As much as she knew about him, she knew nothing at all.

How much did had he ever been lying to her all this time?

"But don't worry, he's not going to die," continued the guard. "Boss has plans for him… he's not going to die on my watch."

_It would have destroyed my career._

What was she now? Just someone else that he had played all this time? What was she to him? Just a burden that he had to carry?

What more didn't she know? Why was he cooperating with the damn enemy?

Why was he giving her up so easily?

_I killed her father._

She closed her eyes and cradled her face in her hands.

"Get her ready," another voice muttered, and she heard a pair of footsteps walking away.

Clinking metal and the jangle of keys. She felt someone coming towards her.

Probably to take her away so that the tattoos could be explained.

They'd bare her back, run their dirty hands over her again.

"Screw you," she said under her breath and then threw her tied fists up at the incoming person. She hit him right in the stomach, and then hurled her right foot up at the same place. The guard fell over, groaning, and she attempted to slither away out the open jail door.

She knew she wasn't going to make it, but since she had lost what she had been fighting for her entire life in a confession she was better off not hearing, she felt like she had to do something to make her still feel like she was alive for a reason.

"Ah, you bitch!" he cursed, getting up and scooping her body onto his shoulders.

Hawkeye kicked him with all the force she had, but he was proficient enough to kick her from hurting him by slinging her over his back and grabbing hold of her legs. The blond hurled her body weight to the side to knock his balance over, bringing the two of them down.

He tackled her, pressing her down to the ground, attempting to regain control of her.

She struggled a bit, but found that she was beat, until she noticed that the soft skin of his neck was just inches from her teeth. She rose her head to position her jaw, seeing a tattoo at the side of his neck—a circle with a vertical line drawn through its diameter.

Tattoos were disgusting.

She bit him where the black marks didn't touch.

"Ah fuck!" and she felt a slap cross her face.

She didn't fight anymore after that.

_There wasn't a reason to fight anymore, _she thought as she was carried away.

**divider**

"Flame alchemy needs two things: a Source and a Gate," he explained. He looked down at the exposed torso on the table.

The last time he had seen the tattoo was when he had burned it, promising that he'd protect its secrets.

It was good she was face down—it was already hard enough to carry on.

"This tattoo illustrates the designs for the Source and the Gate."

After a long drawn out silence, the Alchemist's hazel eyes flickered back to Mustang. "Point them out."

The colonel swallowed thickly, before raising a finger and touching it to the marred skin.

He could feel her muscles tense under his contact.

"The inscription for the Source is here," he continued, his forefinger circling the upper portion of her back. "You make this in any safe place you choose, as long as you can ensure that it isn't going to be disturbed."

Goosebumps spotted her skin. He traced guilty loops over her back before dragging his finger down toward the middle of her spine. "And this is the inscription for the Gate. You keep that next to you—like on a glove," he stated, giving his own strategy as an example.

He ran his finger in another repetitive pattern over his lieutenant's back.

Suddenly her shivering stopped.

He held back a sigh of relief, his voice quavering as he tried to keep his talking even.

_She got the message_, he thought, overjoyed.

"You just need those two things: the Source and the Gate…then you have fire at the snap of your fingers."

The Alchemist watched Mustang for a long time, trying to see past the colonel's dark-set eyes for any hidden truths.

"Not too impressive, huh?" the flame alchemist said darkly.

"But you destroyed all the patterns," the Alchemist remarked. "Burned it right off her back."

"Yes."

"You selfish bastard."

Mustang didn't respond.

"Well at least I have your gloves. That'll save me the trouble of making a…Gate, is it?" the Alchemist smiled before saying, "I'll still need the pattern for the Source though."

The colonel looked away.

"And you can give me that, can't you? For the life of your beloved subordinate?"

Mustang didn't reply to this either. If the Alchemist got the template pattern for the Source…

But the Alchemist didn't seem discouraged.

"By the way," he pressed. "I understand that you and Berthold Hawkeye went on some sort of a…field trip?"

When he saw the flame alchemist's subtle expression of surprised horror, he grinned again.

"To Xing, from what I know…now that wouldn't have anything to do about the location of where you've hidden your Source would it?"

A beat.

A dog yapped behind the guards, and for a split second, everyone's attention was on the uninvited pooch. "What the hell—"

In the mess, Mustang ducked down and picked up an extra set of gloves. "Good dog," he thanked under his breath, watching Hayate run out of the room. A couple of guards were confused as to whether to run after it and some of them looked back towards Mustang, but this was enough time for Hawkeye to gather herself together with her shirt that had been folded aside and for Mustang to subsequently snap his fingers.

A wall of fire puffed out in a line in front of them, separating the Alchemist and his partners from the colonel and lieutenant.

Breathing heavily, one arm out in front of Hawkeye, Mustang held a gloved hand up. "One step closer, and you'll suffer likewise."

Not a word was said, and even the Alchemist was at loss—shooting frustration from his hazel eyes at the colonel.

"Come on," he quickly commanded, starting to run backwards toward the exit.

They ran until their legs burned with the same fire that he held at his fingertips.

**divider**

She took a moment to observe the dark alleyway they had eventually run into—somewhere in less developed part of Amestris; she had no idea where they were. The man clearly had a whole organization set up and was definitely no amateur to the kidnapping game.

How many days had they been stuck done there?

How long had the Alchemist been planning this?

How much more were the two of them going to have to keep running from their past?

"So now what do we do?" she asked between heavy pants, leaning over with her hands on her knees.

He shook his head, exhausted.

She took a breath before suggesting, "I was thinking that we open up a case file for this man. I…still remember what he looks like and he's definitely not just a…personal threat and can potentially harm Amestris if he gets a hold of flame alchemy. And…" she trailed off, remembering some spoken words that the Alchemist had mentioned.

_…you and Berthold Hawkeye went on some sort of a…field trip? To Xing…_

She didn't know about any of this. In fact, she didn't know anything about how flame alchemy worked at all.

Her lips pressed together, but she figured it was probably better that the person who held all the secrets of her father's research didn't know a scrap of how to decode it, and turned her grim face into one more fitting the present situation they were in.

Her colonel said something that she had missed under her thoughts.

"I'm sorry, sir, could you repeat that again?" she asked, snapping out of her mental ramblings and regaining her steady footing like proper military personnel.

"We can't report this," Mustang declared.

…

_"So Master Hawkeye's notes are completely lost?" asked the senior general, pen in his hand._

_"Yes," Mustang answered, stiffly. "The final notes died alongside Berthold Hawkeye."_

_"Then answer this," said the senior general, not believing a word of what the flame alchemist was telling him. _

_"Twenty students have been taught using the parts of Berthold Hawkeye's notes that are intact. Not one of them has produced decent flames—they are nowhere near the level of pyrokinetic handling that you are capable of."_

_Mustang said nothing._

_"You hiding something?" concluded the senior general, getting up from his table and slowly circling around Mustang like a bloodhound. "To keep yourself on top? Or maybe, you're afraid that someone might beat you out? Or maybe, you're just going to sell those final notes to the black market for your own personal gain?"_

_Mustang stood as still as possible, though waves of panic coursed through his veins._

_He didn't care if he was placing his title, his status, his future or even himself at risk—he wasn't going to reveal shit._

_"No," Mustang affirmed. _

_There was no way in hell he was going to give Hawkeye up like a material item—one that would be passed back and forth between greedy selfish hands._

_One that others would_ kill_ for._

_…_

"No, we can't report this," he repeated.

Hawkeye's eyebrows slightly furrowed. "What do you mean? We can't just leave a madman running loose like that."

His eyes held hers for a brief pause—she had never argued against him.

He didn't want to even think about what she might have been brooding about after the Alchemist made him confess—

Looking down, he shook his head. "We just can't. I'll explain later."

His lieutenant's forehead creased even further, but she shifted her gaze and looked off to the side to relax her facial expression before, in an even voice, asking, "So what's the plan now? We can't just go to work and not explain our absence."

Mustang raised his head to face her again.

"How many sick days do you have?"

* * *

**Well, what do you guys think? Thanks for reading and review please!**

**thir13enth**


	4. a tell-tale marking

**Hey all! Sorry you haven't heard from me in a while! Eeek! It's been months since I've been back on this story and I was afraid I had almost forgotten where I was going with all this! I've been quite busy and just got some time during the holidays! Yay for the end of the world! Hopefully I'll get some more words chipped into this fic before my free time expires!**

**And a reply to a reviewer:**

**Logarithm: Thanks for all the awesome reviews! Really appreciate that you took the time to tell me what you were thinking at so many points in the story—I'm glad you like my writing style and I'm thrilled you like the plotline since it was basically created when I was less mature. Got to admit, I hated my "explanation of flame alchemy" part but hell, I'm detail-oriented and I'm not just going to throw all that on you guys later when the action gets heavy! ;) Anyway, thank you again for the review!**

**Enjoy enjoy enjoy! **

* * *

**Chapter Four**

**(the truth comes skin-deep)**

White blouse, plain dress, hair combed down, and a small purse hanging off her left shoulder.

She dressed like any other woman would, intending to go far without anyone noticing her.

Much less the suitcase full of ammunition and spare guns that she carried oh so casually in her right hand.

No one suspected anything when they got on the train east heading toward Xing, and when asked by the train personnel, they were tourists intending to take many pictures of the exotic lands of the direction that the sun rose.

So they sat, side by side, in seats toward the middle of the train car.

Hawkeye hadn't asked any questions regarding Mustang's intentions yet, seeing if she could figure it out on her own, but found herself lacking information to draw any conclusions. Her brown eyes gazed over at her colonel, his head bowed down in half-sleep, hands resting in his lap, fingers clamped tight around each other.

"Hey," she said softly.

He apologized briefly before catching himself again. "Sorry…are you okay?"

She kept an inward smile—the man never did put himself before others, did he?

"Sorry, I never explained the plan…I must be as much of a fail colonel as you make me out to be huh?" he wryly joked. He looked up at her before continuing. "I have to move the Source Transmutation Circle. There's a lot to it and it's hard to explain all at once, but it's all to keep you safe."

Hawkeye corrected him. "Us," she interrupted, placing a head over his tense ones.

**laterthatday**

She watched his eyebrows furrow, studying the map held in front of him.

"So essentially, we're just a couple blocks from the station…and if we walk a bit in this direction…" he changed his mind, turning around. "I mean, in this direction—"

"Admit it, sir," she smiled. "You're lost."

"No, I'm not lost—I just need to recalibrate our location," he defended.

Suppressing some laughter, she nodded her head. "Okay, while you go ahead and do that, I'll ask for directions."

**momentsafter**

After a couple of knocks, the wooden door slowly swung open.

Not seeing anyone in front of them, the two of them were confused.

"Down here, young ones!" a voice from below snapped.

"Ah, I'm sorry!" Mustang quickly apologized, slightly bending down to apprehend the short elderly lady in front of them.

"Stand up _straight_!" she retorted, pushing his forehead up with her index finger.

Hawkeye stifled a small laugh, covering her mouth.

The elderly lady gave Hawkeye a wide smile. "And who might you be?"

"Elizabeth and Christopher," Hawkeye introduced, lie smooth off her lips. "I'm sorry for disturbing you, but we're a bit lost."

"Oh that's no big deal," said the lady, flipping her hand in gesture of this. "My husband and I never get visitors..." the elder added under her breath, "after our son ran off to the city to womanize tramps and our daughter eloped!" She regained her kind demeanor however. "You are welcome to stay for the night!"

"Oh no, we don't need a place to—"

"I insist!" and the senior woman dragged them both in with a strength that surprised the two of them.

Mustang and Hawkeye took in the sight of the simple and neat living space. In the corner, sat an older man sitting comfortably in his chair, who squinted when the two of them entered the house.

"Is that May Ling and—"

"Not our children!" interrupted his spouse. "Just two people that are going to be staying the night with us today," she explained. The elderly lady pointed toward a door to the left. "We have extra rooms!" she said, already ready to host the young couple, who wordlessly agreed among themselves that they could afford a night of rest.

Then lady suddenly looked suspiciously between the two of them and went up to Hawkeye, loudly whispering, "And I have more than one room, so that you don't have to worry about that guy bothering you."

Mustang gave the elderly lady an awkward look and Hawkeye nodded to politely accept the elder's offer.

"Thank you, ma'am," Hawkeye said, giving her a bright smile. "Do you need help preparing dinner today?"

"Oh you sweet girl!"

Mustang weakly raised his hand as well. "I, um, can—"

"You will just make trouble! Go sit!"

**laterthatday**

"Here, I can help with that," Hawkeye offered, holding out her right hand in order to take over the older woman's sweeping. "It'll be the least that I can do for you hosting me."

The elder smiled. "Why thank you, you sweet girl." She handed Hawkeye the broom, and Hawkeye cherished how she was at least a foot taller than the aging woman. Hawkeye stepped forward to intercept the chore.

"Oh? What happened here?" the senior asked, lightly tapping the Hawkeye's right leg when spotting something on her skin, since her pant leg had drawn up when she had stepped forward. "It looks like a burn."

Hawkeye pulled her leg back instinctively. "Sorry," she apologized for her abruptness, not intending to be rough.

_It must have happened at some point while we were escaping, _she reasoned quickly, observing the slightly scalded skin on her calf.

"It must hurt a lot then," soothed the older woman. "I'll have my maid take you to a nearby spring later. It's very good for your health too and can probably help your wound out a bit."

The blond lieutenant smiled, tucking her injury back under her pant leg.

She didn't want Mustang seeing that either.

**afterdinner**

"My flame alchemy isn't going to work for the time that I'm moving my Source Transmutation Circle," Mustang said suddenly.

Hawkeye didn't judge, continuing to lay sheets over the mattresses. "Is it safe?"

He cast his eyes downwards. "As long as no one bothers us in that time."

"We can't guarantee that," she said, rolling out the fabric and smoothing it over.

"The most important thing is that…_he_ doesn't find it," Mustang reasoned, about a minute later. "That's why I have to move it. He knows that it's somewhere in Xing. I just…hope that they lost track of us."

"Where were you thinking of moving it?" she asked briefly.

"I was going to—"

"Um…" a soft voice interrupted. A woman that looked to be in her twenties with her hair tied back showed up around the corner of the hallway. "Sorry, I'm the maid for this house," she introduced herself. She looked past Mustang, facing Hawkeye. "I was told you had burns, and that I should take you to the medicinal spring."

"Ah…" and Hawkeye trailed off, making quick eye contact with Mustang, who left upon Hawkeye's request. "Thank you for the offer."

_These people were almost a bit too hospitable_, Hawkeye thought while she gave the maid a quick smile.

The two of them walked across the cool dry sand beyond the elderly man and woman's cottage, eventually reaching a small gurgle of oasis.

Hawkeye bent down to roll up her pant leg, but the maid quickly prevented her from doing so.

"Here, here, I'll do that for you," she said, sitting Hawkeye down at the edge of the water and kneeling down to do so.

"Oh no, it's quite alright."

"I insist," and in the small stumble the two women had, the two guns at the holsters from Hawkeye's back fell out, clattering onto the sand below them.

The maid gasped covering her mouth and stepping back, her slick black hair falling out of place.

Hawkeye explained quickly, "No, no! I just keep these on me, just in case!"

The maid took the fault as her own, looking aside. "Oh no, I'm sorry. I just overreacted. I—"

"It's okay, miss," Hawkeye said, placing a sympathetic hand on the maid's shoulder. "You would have never expected me to bring these with me when we were just going to a spring." Hawkeye gave her a weak smile, and the maid quickly continued on with getting Hawkeye's leg into the water. Hawkeye decided it was better that she not do anything, letting the maid do what she wanted, and not interfering.

Before Hawkeye's heel touched the water, the maid suddenly stopped abruptly.

"Um…the water is a bit cold," she said, and Hawkeye nodded before her leg was submerged.

Hawkeye breathed out a small sigh of relief as she felt the inflammation around her burn settle down, the water calming her nerves around the area. She looked over at the maid, who was waiting patiently, sitting on her legs.

"Join me," Hawkeye invited.

The maid looked to the side. "It's not proper to—"

Hawkeye shook her head. "I am not the person you work for," she said.

The maid gave her an unsure smile, and when Hawkeye gestured for her to join her, she then rolled up her own pant legs to dip into the water.

"What's your name?"

"Yin," she said simply. And then after a moment, "What about you?"

"Elizabeth. And the guy that was with me is Christopher."

She nodded, and then asked, "How long have you known him?"

Hawkeye looked upwards at the starry sky. "Quite a while, actually."

"Do you have…future plans?" Yin asked hesitantly.

The blond stuttered, a rare event on her lips. "Oh-oh no, we're not in any kind of a relationship."

"Oh! I'm sorry!" Yin apologized.

"No, no, it's fine."

After the moment passed, Yin continued, "So what brings you here?"

"We were just visiting," Hawkeye lied. "We got lost along the way from the station."

Yin nodded. "It's easy to get lost in a place like this…what happened to your leg?"

"Just an accident."

"That must have been a serious accident."

Hawkeye nodded, turning her head toward Yin.

She froze.

Because under the moonlight, Hawkeye just saw a sliver of skin just at the side of Yin's neck with something that was much too familiar.

A tattoo—a circle with a vertical line drawn through its diameter.

Of the exact same design as the guard from the Alchemist.

* * *

**Do remember the author's tip jar (aka: please review)! Or...I'll tell Maes Hughes that you totally want to hear _all _the stories about his daughter! muaha!**

**Happy holidays all!**

**thir13enth**


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